The Night Before Yule
by Darkover
Summary: On the night before Yule, Barliman Butterbur has an unwelcome guest. Written for the "Alcohol" challenge at Teitho, where it received First Place.


8

Title: "The Night Before Yule"

Author: Darkover

Word Count: 1,677

Rating: K+, for one dirty word.

Disclaimer: The characters of "Lord of the Rings" were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, not by me. I am merely borrowing them, and giving credit to his genius, so please do not sue.

Summary: On the night before Yule, Barliman Butterbur has an unwelcome guest.

~oo0oo~

It was the night before Yule, and not a creature was stirring at the Prancing Pony Inn, except for the innkeeper himself, Barliman Butterbur. He did have a few guests, but all of them, Big and Little Folk alike, had quit the Common Room and gone to bed. So had his wife, and he had already given both Hob and Nob, the two hobbits he employed, leave to go home. Perhaps because the skies were unusually clear for this time of year—no snow falling at present—and because most folk preferred to be home or otherwise with loved ones on the Eve before Yule, there had not been a great demand for the hospitality that his inn provided. Barliman wasn't concerned. There was generally considerable snow and bad weather after the holiday, and that—plus the fact that many folk would be traveling back home after visiting family for Yule—never failed to bring him plenty of guests.

Tonight was another matter. Barliman knew he should probably just call it a night and go to bed, but the thought that there might be some last-minute traveler who really needed shelter for the night made him decide to remain up for a couple of hours longer. It wasn't snowing outside, not yet, but it was fiercely cold, as he was reminded when the inn door opened to blow a strong draft through the room. The small fire in the hearth flared, then crackled and settled.

Barliman looked over at the visitor with a smile, which froze on his face. It was a Man, and a tall one, maybe the tallest Barliman had ever seen. He was wearing a nondescript gray cloak that had seen a lot of wear, and boots that had seen even more. He paused momentarily in the doorway, as if scanning the room, before forcing the door shut against the wind. He was hooded, so the innkeeper could not get a close look at his face, but he carried a long sword in a sheath at his waist and a knife at his belt. The innkeeper wondered why this man needed so much weaponry in a place like Bree, which was so peaceful that many folk seldom even bothered to lock their doors. The man stamped his long legs and then moved into the room. Barliman expected him to warm himself at the fire, but the man moved swiftly and with an unnerving silence toward where Barliman stood behind the bar. He was broad-shouldered and appeared quite strong, and still had not yet lowered his hood. The man looked shabby and menacing all at once. Barliman didn't like the look of the fellow.

"Do you have a room for the night?"

"I do for them that can pay," Butterbur said shortly. This fellow's clothes weren't of the best, and he looked as if he had come in from out of the wild. Not a typical guest, and the innkeeper was determined to see the fellow's coin before waiting on him.

The man's hand went to his belt, and behind the bar, Barliman's hand closed on the "innkeeper's friend," a stout cudgel. But the man was only reaching for his purse, which he opened wordlessly to display a modest amount of coinage. Barliman nodded. "I can let you have a room. Would you like me to show you to it now?"

"I should like something to drink first," the man said. His voice was deep and level, and as he threw back his hood, Barliman saw that he had raven-dark hair and piercing gray eyes. "Do you have beer?"

"Course I have beer!" Barliman said, affronted. "My beer's the best in all of Bree!"

"Give me a pint, and let me decide that for myself," the man said.

Barliman glanced at him sharply, wondering if the fellow meant to cause trouble, but the tall man with the gray eyes merely regarded him expressionlessly. The innkeeper drew a pint and placed it in front of the stranger. "There you go. That'll be a shilling," he added pointedly.

The man slid a shilling across to him, and took the beer without a word. He crossed over the room and found himself a seat. Barliman noticed that he did not take a seat nearest the fire, as a normal fellow might have done, but sat in a chair that had its back to the wall and which afforded him a view of the door. The innkeeper was feeling less happy about this new guest by the moment. He looked like a bandit. Clearly he was not from Bree, and there seemed nothing at all respectable about him. Had he come here to cause trouble? Perhaps he intended to rob them all in their sleep.

Then the door opened with a gust of fresh air and loud, boisterous laughter, and Barliman looked over in relief. Three Men came in, all of them locals, although the only one he knew by name was Bill Ferny. Bill was hardly the most welcome of guests, but tonight it was a relief to see him. Barliman wasn't skittish, but it was a relief not to be alone with the wild-looking fellow in the corner.

"A little service, innkeeper!" Bill called out loudly as he and the other two men seated themselves at a table. "Beer all around!"

Barliman filled three pints and carried them over to the three men. They all eagerly took the drinks, and Barliman, catching the smell of alcohol already on them, seeing their too-bright eyes and flushed faces, realized they had already been drinking a great deal. They might already be drunk. That was not a good sign, but a customer was a customer, at least ones that could afford it, as he had told the wild-looking fellow.

They drank the first pints swiftly and demanded more, shouting at him to hurry up, which annoyed the innkeeper. But when he brought the second round to them, Ferny made a sneering crack about the beer's lack of quality, and that made Barliman decide that there were some customers he could do without.

"If you don't like my beer, you don't have to drink it," he told Ferny. "You're probably only here because the tavern closes early on the Eve of Yule. Drink up, pay up, and get on home."

Ferny looked at the other two men at the table and grinned. "Maybe we won't go home. Maybe we'd rather stay here, right lads?" His cronies grinned back.

"No rooms available," Barliman said shortly.

"What about *him?*" Ferny sniggered, indicating the silent fellow in the corner. "He looks like something the cat dragged in. If you have a room for the likes of that, then you have room for us!" The other two men at the table with him guffawed, as if this were a great joke. "Hey, Longshanks," he said loudly, now addressing the man in the corner. "I'm talking to you!"

"Enough," Barliman snapped. " Pay for your beers, Bill, and be on your way!"

In the manner of drunks everywhere, Ferny suddenly went from obnoxious amiability to aggression. He slammed his now-empty tankard down on the table and stood up, glaring at the innkeeper. "You expect us to pay for this worthless swill? Your beer tastes like cat's piss!"

Barliman stepped back, intending to reach for the cudgel behind the counter, but Ferny, with surprising swiftness for one so drunk, moved to block his way. "Don't get any ideas, Butterbur! There's three of us, and only one of you!"

"Two," a voice said.

The man in the corner had not spoken loudly, but his voice silenced Ferny and everyone in the room. For a long moment there was no sound save for the crackling of the fire. The wild-looking fellow was on his feet, facing Ferny. He said nothing more, but his hand was on the hilt of his sword.

Ferny looked away first, and he looked desperately at his two cronies at the table. They both looked uneasy. One quickly looked away from the man in the gray cloak, and the other hastily scrambled to his feet, threw some coins down on the table, and bolted out the door. The other man almost fell over himself in his haste to follow.

"Wait for me, lads!" Ferny cried, and ran after them. The door slammed shut. Barliman moved to bolt it. When he turned back, the wild-looking fellow whom he had considered to be so disreputable had resumed his seat as if nothing had happened.

Barliman wiped his forehead. "Thank you."

The man nodded, but said nothing, and drained his tankard.

"I'd say that earns you another beer, friend," Barliman said. "This one's on the house."

"Thank you," the man said as his tankard was refilled. "When I've finished drinking it, I'll be ready to go to my room."

Barliman blushed, remembering how he had insisted on seeing the fellow's coin. "See here, what's your name? And where are you from?"

"Folk around here frequently call me 'Strider.' And I am a Ranger from the North."

"A Ranger?" Barliman echoed, horrified, and then caught himself as he received a sharp glance from the gray eyes. The innkeeper did not wish to compound his initial insult, but everyone knew that Rangers were a wild lot, apt to bring trouble to otherwise respectable folk. "Well," he said, taking a deep breath, "you'll always be welcome here, Strider."

Amusement sparkled in the gray eyes, as if the tall Ranger knew the effort it had taken for Barliman to make that offer. "Thank you."

As the Ranger finished his drink, Barliman lit a lantern and prepared to lead the tall man to a room for the night. "He was wrong, you know," Strider's deep voice said to the innkeeper's back.

Barliman paused, glancing back in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"Your beer is good. Very good."

Barliman smiled and continued on down the hall. Maybe the Rangers weren't as bad as everyone said. A fellow who appreciated good beer couldn't be all bad.


End file.
